


I'm Right Here

by golden_gardenias



Series: The Trust We Mapped Out in My Bed [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_gardenias/pseuds/golden_gardenias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The assurance spreads warmth in his chest, and he chides himself for ever believing otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Right Here

**Author's Note:**

> this is my understanding of bipolar disorder based on ian's state of mind at the end of season 3 rather than the manic episode in season 4, so if there's anything about this portrayal that doesn't sit right with you or needs to be changed, please let me know.

Ian pretends not to notice Mickey watching him, but he does.  He sees him bite his lip and chew his fingernails and glance at him nervously out the corner of his eye. He sees the tense set of his shoulders and hears his uncomfortable laughter and feels his fingers tap anxiously on the blankets draped over them as they drift to sleep.

Mickey curls around him now instead of the other way around, arms locked taut across his chest, like if he holds Ian tight enough he’ll be able to keep him there.  Ian doesn’t think this is necessary, but he can feel Mickey’s pulse fluttering with nerves in the wrists pressed against his pectorals, knows that Mickey strains to keep himself awake until Ian falls asleep, just to be sure.

He wonders idly if this is what being loved by Mickey is like.  Because maybe Mickey doesn’t feel it the way Ian does; maybe it’s not crushing waves crashing over him, or his chest expanding until he can barely speak, or the nearly overwhelming urge to simply _be_ when it’s just the two of them.  Maybe it’s not the gentle kisses and tender caresses, but it’s _there_.  He feels it in the harshness of their kisses and the fire burning under their skin and sees it in the fierce look in Mickey’s eyes when he’s riding him, grabbing the back of his neck and whispering for Ian to look at him.  He sees it in the way Mickey’s hands twitch whenever his father comes into the store and glowers at them.  He feels it in the arms wrapped around him that say _Don’t leave me, you can’t leave me, take me with you, **please**_.

But he thinks that maybe he’s okay with that.

 

* * *

 

“What are you writing?”

Mickey’s voice tears him from his reverie, and he snaps his recently acquired journal shut, hiding his thoughts away from prying eyes.  He’d found it next to a dumpster and felt compelled to pick it up, something he hadn’t done since childhood, when he brought home a syringe to show Fiona.  Strangely enough, she hadn’t appreciated the gift.

“Just stuff,” he shrugs, sliding the small book into his backpack and zipping it up.

Mickey eyes him for a moment.  “What stuff?  Homework?”

Ian shakes his head with a small smile.  “Nope.  Stuff about you.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he looks slightly nervous, but still lets the subject drop.

Mandy walks down the school steps then, finally finished with her meeting with their English teacher.  She’s not surprised to see her brother waiting with her best friend; sometimes Ian and Mandy walk out of school to find Mickey waiting for them, leaning against the fence and smoking.  They’ve come to expect it, and stand by the fence to meet him on days he gets there late.  Today Mickey’d sauntered up bundled against the cold and wearing a knit cap that Ian totally doesn’t think he looks adorable in at all.

“You two sure are spending a lot of time together,” Mandy remarks dryly as they begin their trek toward the Gallagher house.

Mickey’s shoulders tense, but he walks on as if he’s unaffected.  “The fuck you talking about?” he asks gruffly around his cigarette.

His sister shrugs.  “Nothing.  Just wondering if either one of you was ever gonna tell me you were fucking, that’s all.”

This time Mickey stops in his tracks, eyes wide.  “W-What?”

Ian finds himself irrationally afraid as well.  He _knows_ Mandy, knows her better than anyone, so of course she’ll be okay with it.  But for whatever reason, he feels his chest tighten at the fear on Mickey’s face and does a quick glance at the block they’re on to make sure they’re alone.

Mandy snorts, looking at each of them with derision.  “Did you really think no one would notice you’ve been sneaking off at night?”

Mickey’s face is stricken.  “Does--Does Dad know?” he asks.  His voice is tight, and Ian wants to grab his hand.

Mandy shrugs.  “I don’t know.  Probably not.”  She pauses.  “Aren’t you gonna ask about Svetlana?”

Ian freezes.  “What about her?” he asks stiffly.

She narrows her eyes at him.  “She’s his wife.  Don’t you think she cares he’s sneaking out with you?”

“Yeah, I’m sure the woman who screws guys for a living is real broken up about Mickey doing it for free.”

Mickey must hear something in his voice, because he gives him a sharp look before turning back to his sister.  “Look, it’s not that big a deal--”

“Not that big a deal?  She’s having your baby and you’re just gonna fool around on her?  No offense, guys, but that’s kinda messed up.”

Ian feels an intense wave of anger surge through him at her words.  “Oh, _we’re_ kinda messed up?  Not your fucking father for making him marry her in the first place?”

Mickey’s eyes widen.

“The fuck are you talking about?” she asks defensively.

Ian takes a few measured steps toward her, practically vibrating with rage.  “I’m talking about that sick fuck you call Dad calling her and making him--”

Mickey pushes him roughly to cut him off, fear and hurt warring for supremacy on his face.  “The _fuck_ , man?  What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Ian pauses for a moment at the betrayal in Mickey’s eyes.  “Shit,” he curses quietly, anger somehow evaporated.  “Mick, I’m--”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Mickey spits, backing away from Ian’s outstretched hand.

Mandy watches them closely, but remains silent.

Ian tries again, taking a step toward Mickey and lightly touching his arm.  “I said get the fuck off me,” Mickey says dangerously, twisting away from him.

He strains to speak around the lump in his throat.  “Mickey--”

“ _No_ ,” he says shortly.  “Fuck you, Ian.   _Fuck you_.”

After glaring viciously, he stalks off, fury powering each step.  Ian is left staring forlornly after him as Mandy tries to piece together what just happened.

“The fuck was that about?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, closing himself off.

“Bullshit.  What the fuck were you guys talking about?”

“ _Nothing_.  Just leave it alone, Mandy.”

She bites her lip, deliberating.

“If you want answers, follow him,” he says, sensing her dilemma.  “He should be the one to tell you.”

She can’t hear the sudden dejection in his voice, too caught up in her own racing thoughts.  “I’ll...see you later?” she says uncertainly.

“Yeah.  Sure,” he says distractedly.

She leaves in the same direction of her brother, leaving Ian alone on the sidewalk.  He swallows the lump in his throat, but the guilt refuses to go down with it.

When he gets home, Fiona is in the kitchen crying.  His footsteps startle her, and she jumps up from her seat at the table and hastily wipes her eyes.  “Hey,” she sniffs, trying to act casual.  “How was school?”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.  Fiona’s tears always made him feel off kilter and unbalanced, as though nothing was okay or would ever be okay again if his big sister wasn’t smiling.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she dismisses, running a hand over her face.  “Mike broke up with me, that’s all.”

“Really?”  The last time he’d checked, Mike worshipped the ground his sister walked on.

“Yeah.  I had it coming though,” she admits regretfully.

“What happened?”

She closes her eyes and sighs heavily.  “I might have accidentally, on more than one occasion...slept with his brother.”

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, going to pour herself a drink.

He’s quiet for a moment, contemplating.  “I messed things up with my boyfriend, too.”

She sets a drink out for him.  “What’d you do?”

He takes a sip.  “Almost told his sister about some of the shit that went down before.  Now he’s mad at me.”

Fiona nods knowingly.  “Does his sister know about the two of you?”

“Now she does.  Figured out that he’s been sneaking out to see me.”

She takes a sip of her own.  “How’d she take it?”

“A little upset that we didn’t tell her, but I guess she’ll be fine.  They’re talking now.”

“Well that’s good.  He’s got someone in his corner.”

The thought makes him smile.  “Yeah.  He does.”

Fiona eyes him for a moment longer before topping off his drink.  “Cheer up, Ian; I think it’ll work out.”

“You do?” he asks tentatively.

“As much as you guys love each other?  Definitely.”

He turns the words over in his head.  “No, I...I don’t...”

“You don’t what?”

Fiona’s face is open and earnest, everything he needed to confide in her as a child, but now all it does is make him swallow his words.

_He doesn’t love me.  He couldn’t love me.  How could anyone love me, after what I did?  He always gets hurt because of me._

How can he possibly tell her that?

“Nothing,” he answers quietly.  He feels hot.  His hands are shaking, and a now familiar ache stabs at his shoulders.  “I’m gonna go for a run,” he says abruptly, pushing his chair away from the table and standing.

“What?  You just got home,” Fiona protests.

“No, no, I--I gotta go.”  He rushes through the living room, unsure where his sudden desperation has come from.

“Ian, wait!”  She hurries after him, but he’s already out the door.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t know how he got here or why he came; all he knows is that there’s a drink in his hand and Mickey’s face is burned into his eyelids.  He can’t stop replaying the scene in his head; Mickey’s fear, his hurt, the betrayed and wounded look in his eyes.  How could Ian have done that to him?  Christ, Mickey’d actually recoiled from him.   _Don’t fucking touch me_ , he’d said.   _Get the fuck off me_.  He probably doesn’t want anything to do with Ian anymore, if his unanswered texts are anything to go by.

[To: **Mickey** ]

 _i’m sorry. i’m so sorry_.

[To: **Mickey** ]

_do you forgive me?_

[To: **Mickey** ]

_please talk to me_

[To: **Mickey** ]

_mickey please_

Nothing.

He takes another sip, barely registering that his bottle is almost empty.

Music surges through the air.  He can feel eyes on him, and looks up to find a man, possibly in his late forties, watching him with a smirk.

The hollow feeling in his stomach grows, but he forces himself to smile back.

The man’s eyes light up, and he leaves his table to make his way over to Ian.  “Hey,” he tosses out confidently.  “What’s a pretty thing like you doing over here all by yourself?”

The words slosh around in his head; how many drinks has he had?

“And looking so sad, too?” the man presses on.

“I fucked up,” he mumbles, staring dejectedly into his now-empty bottle.

“You want some more?” the man asks, gesturing to Ian’s drink.  Without waiting for an answer, he flags down the bartender and orders another one.  “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” he says shortly, taking a swig.  He relishes the smooth slide of the cool liquid down the back of his throat.

“So what’s your name?” the man asks, smiling.  “I’m Greg.”

“Mickey,” Ian says miserably.

Greg sidles closer to him, running two fingers lightly up Ian’s arm. “Well, Mickey, what do you say--”

“No,” he snorts.  “ _I’m_ not Mickey.  I’m...” he trails off, shrinking in on himself.  “I don’t know who I am anymore,” he murmurs softly, trying and failing to keep the sadness out of his voice.  “Mickey helped, but now he hates me.”

“Oh.”  Greg considers Ian’s despondent state for a moment, and promptly changes tactics.  “I don’t think he hates you.  I don’t see how anyone could hate someone as sweet as you.”

_I like ‘em sweet._

“You think I’m sweet?” he asks hopefully.

“Mhm.  In fact,” he says softly, leaning in and running his hand down Ian’s back.  “I’d like to show you how sweet you are.”

Ian doesn’t notice that Greg is leading him away from the bar, but he can feel Greg’s hand trailing along the waistband of his jeans.  His fingers make Ian shiver.  “Um, I don’t know,” he slurs uncertainly.  His eyelids are heavy.  “Mickey doesn’t like that.”

“Why do you care?  Didn’t you say Mickey hated you?”

Greg’s arm is wrapped around him now, and there are fingers rubbing small circles into his hip.  “Don’t want him to hate me more.  If that’s even possible.  Mickey’s good at holding grudges; he’ll--he’ll be mad at me forever,” he groans glumly.

The cold bites at his arms; had he put on a jacket before he left?  “Why don’t you forget about Mickey, hmm?” Greg whispers into Ian’s temple.  They’re standing on the sidewalk.  There are people around, and Ian feels like he should be asking for help, but can’t make his mouth form the words.  Greg’s hand is cupped around the bulge in his pants, but his body’s not responding.

“Why would I do that?”  Ian has to force his eyes open when he blinks; everything feels heavy and far away.

“I can help you, if you want,” Greg murmurs, unzipping Ian’s jeans.  The people he’d seen before are gone.

“Hey, wait,” he slurs.  He tries to move his arm, but Greg has him backed against the side of the building, pinned on both sides.

Someone shouts, but he can’t distinguish the voice.  Are they saying his name?

Greg’s hand slips into his boxers.  “Stop that.”  He wants his voice to sound harder, more stern, but it’s too soft.  Why is he so tired?  “I--I don’t want--”

Greg is suddenly gone, and Ian sways where he’s standing.

“Why don’t you molest someone your own age, you jerk-off.”

 _Mickey_.

“You fucking touch him again and I’ll cut off your goddamn hands.  Get outta here, get the _fuck_ outta here!  And learn how to run like a dude!”

Ian manages to keep his eyes open long enough to watch Mickey kick Greg in the ass, breathing heavily and glaring at his retreating figure.

“Mickey?” he asks, struggling to remain standing.

He turns to face him, eyes still blazing.

“What--what are you doing here?”

He doesn’t get an answer; Mickey continues to stand there staring at him, and he can’t read the expression on his face.  Maybe it’s all the alcohol running through him.

“Come on, man,” he says quietly.  “Gotta get you home.”

Mickey waits patiently for Ian to push himself off the wall and then walks a little bit ahead of him, trying to keep his distance while being close enough that Ian still knows he’s there.  He takes a few steps forward before stopping and clutching his stomach.  “I’m not gonna make it,” he warns weakly, and promptly vomits on the sidewalk.

Mickey makes some kind of noise of distress and displeasure, bending to help him through his retching.  “Jesus Christ, Ian,” he mutters, rubbing along Ian’s shoulder. “How much did you have to drink?”

He sounds tired, like he's sick of the world and of dealing with everything Ian puts him through.  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand and trying to ignore the tears stinging in his eyes.   _Of course he's tired of you, you're so_   _ **weak.**_   “About before and right now and _everything_ , okay? I’m so sorry Mickey, please don’t leave me.”

Mickey’s hand freezes on Ian’s arm.  “Who said anything about me leaving you?” he demands.  “Look, man, I’m not...that was just a shitty fucking thing to do, alright?”

“I know,” he whimpers, a few tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes.  “I don’t know why I did it, I just got so mad--”

“It’s fine, man.  Don’t worry about it, okay?  Just--Just get up so we can get you home.”

He grabs Ian under his shoulders and tugs, helping him stand on wobbly legs.  They walk a few more steps with Mickey supporting him before a familiar car pulls up next to them.  The driver rolls the passenger window down and calls out to them.  “I thought I told you to call me when you found him?”

“Ned?” he slurs.  What the fuck was Ned doing here?

Mickey snorts.  “Don’t worry, Grandpa, I got it from here.”

Mickey came here with Ned?

"Yeah," he grunts out in response.

_Did I say that out loud?_

"Yeah, you did."  Annoyance colors Mickey's tone.  "Called him 'cause your dumb ass left your phone at home.  Wanted to know if he knew where you were."

Ned "tsk"s impatiently.  “Will you please just get in the car?  You’re not dragging him all the way home.”

“Watch me,” he replies shortly, tightening his hold on Ian and moving them forward a few more feet.  Their unsteady motion has Ian’s stomach roiling again, and without much warning he doubles over, dry heaving until more of his lunch comes up.

The car door slams and suddenly Ned is leaning above him, too, with Mickey scowling over his shoulder.  “Shut up and help me get him in the car, would you?” Ned snaps.

Mickey shakes his head before grabbing Ian’s upper body and hoisting him up, Ned opening his back door and pushing Ian’s lower body into the seat while Mickey pulls from inside the car.  When he’s finally arranged on the leather with his head in Mickey’s lap, Ned secures him with the seatbelt.  There’s a fleeting touch to his lower abdomen as it clicks into place, and Mickey picks up on it immediately.  “Hey!” he says angrily.  “Those fingers go anywhere near that cock and I’ll break every knuckle in your hand.  All fifteen of ‘em.”

Ned rolls his eyes.  “Settle down, Rumblefish.  And besides, a hand only has fourteen knuckles.”

Mickey glares as he settles into the front seat.  “Do you wanna fucking die?”

Ned pulls away from the curb smoothly, scoffing to himself.  “Am I supposed to be afraid of you?”

Mickey’s fingers flex on Ian’s shoulder, and he finds the contact comforting.  “Lemme put it this way: you touch him, they won’t find your body.  Maybe I’ll send your family a couple fingers on your birthday, just to keep ‘em on their toes.”

Ian chuckles wanly at that, twisting deeper into Mickey’s lap and reveling in the warmth.  He feels Mickey thread his fingers through his hair--he should probably get it cut, it’s getting kinda long--and stroke softly.  It reminds him of their time in the dugouts, and part of him is relieved; Mickey’s still here, Mickey doesn’t hate him, maybe even loves him, if he’s honest with himself.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly, turning to bury his face in Mickey’s stomach.

Mickey pauses his ministrations.  “Would you stop apologizing already?  Shit's getting old."

"But I am,” he insists into his sweater.  "I keep messing everything up for you."

He sighs, resuming his stroking of Ian's hair.  "You're not messing anything up, man, alright?  Don't worry about it."

Ian sniffs, wrapping his arms around Mickey's middle as best he can.  "Thank you," he murmurs.

The car swerves suddenly, and their arms tense around each other.  "The fuck, dude?" Mickey swears angrily in the rear view mirror.

"Sorry, there was a stray dog."

"Fuck the dog!"

Something about the sentiment and Mickey's indignant expression makes Ian laugh heartily, and Mickey's face softens when he looks down at him.  "You so love me," he teases.

Mickey freezes.  "Says who?" he asks, voice tight.

"Says me," Ian mutters sleepily, curling closer to the heat radiating from Mickey's torso.  Mickey seems to notice Ian's bare arms and shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over him.  "You're the best, Mick."

Mickey rolls his eyes.  "And you're shitfaced."

"Doesn't mean you aren't the best thing to ever happen to me," he says softly, closing his eyes and settling in closer.   _You're so good, and I'm ruining you._

The thought makes his eyes shoot open.  Mickey puzzles over Ian's sudden distress for a moment before leaning down to press a quick kiss to his forehead.  “Just sleep it off, man,” he says softly.  “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“You promise?”  He hates that he can hear the vulnerability in his small voice.

“I swear.”  They share a long look before he continues.  “I’m here, Ian.  I’m right here.”

The assurance spreads warmth in his chest, and he chides himself for ever believing otherwise.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up alone in his bed.  He can hear voices floating up from the kitchen, one agitated, one soft, one plaintive; the rest of the house is eerily silent.

His head is pounding, but he stands anyway, wrapping himself up in his blankets; the house is colder than he remembers it being this time of year.  Once he reaches the top of the stairs, the voices become clearer: Fiona, Ned, and Mandy.

“Look, I’m his guardian, okay?” his sister snaps, voice hard.  “He’s going through a bit of a rough patch, yeah, but that doesn’t mean something’s wrong with him.”

“Fiona,” Ned says placatingly, “you have to have noticed how...erratic his moods are.”

“He’s always running,” Mandy adds softly.

“Why does that have to mean something bad, hm?  I used to go on runs all the time.”

“It’s more than that,” Mickey explains impatiently.  “He’s--he’s different, alright?  He hardly sleeps, he forgets to eat, he’s fuckin’ lashing out at people--”

“He’s a teenager!” she shouts over him, finally having reached the end of her rope.  “Teenagers have mood swings, it’s not like this is anything new.”

Ned sighs.  “Fiona--”

“Do you have any idea how many times he’s cried himself to sleep in the last few months?” Mickey demands suddenly.  “How many times he’s told me he doesn’t want to be in his own skin?  Do you know about the time I woke up and found him standing at the edge of our building talkin' about how he wishes he could fly away?”

A heavy silence rings through the air.  Ian feels numb to it all, Mickey’s words stirring something inside him.  “I don’t give a fuck what you want or what you say,” he continues viciously, “I’m getting him some fucking help.”

A chair scrapes away from the table, and Ian doesn’t have the time to unlock his limbs from his position at the top of the stairs before Mickey is staring up at him. “Hey,” he says softly, moving slowly to stand in front of him.  His caution and care don’t match the tone he was using moments ago in the kitchen.  “What are you doing outta bed?”

Ian’s throat is dry, and Mickey seems to intuit that he can’t answer.  “Hey, why you crying?  What’s wrong?”

He’s crying?  He reaches a shaking hand up to touch his face and feels moisture beneath his fingertips.  “I--I--”  He heaves in huge gulping breaths, trying to control the sudden onslaught of emotion.

Mickey steps closer to him, eyeing him warily before reaching up to wipe his cheeks.  The action only makes him cry harder.  “None of that, okay?  Shh.”

His thumbs stroke gently over Ian’s face before Ian crumples, throwing his arms over the smaller boy’s shoulders and squeezing him to his chest.  He can see the concerned faces of the rest of his family looking up at them, crowded around the bottom of the staircase, and forces himself to block them out.  Mickey grounds him with a firm hand on his back, and that’s all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> not sure if this was quite ready yet, but i figured i might as well. hope everyone liked it, and let me know if anything needs changing


End file.
